


A Firm Hand

by veiledndarkness



Category: Walking Dead (TV)
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-02-14
Updated: 2012-02-14
Packaged: 2017-10-31 04:46:26
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Underage
Chapters: 1
Words: 985
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/340032
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/veiledndarkness/pseuds/veiledndarkness
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Merle knows exactly how to bring a boy like Daryl under control. Written for the twd_kinkmeme on livejournal.</p>
            </blockquote>





	A Firm Hand

X

Keeping a boy like Daryl in line required more than just a firm hand.

Some boys need more than that and, well, no one was more aware of that than him. Some boys needed a reminder about who was in charge and when to toe the fuckin’ line. Yessir, nossir, three bags full an’ mind your tone while you’re at it and what not.

It was painfully obvious to Merle that Daryl wasn’t shapin’ up properly. You can’t do a half ass job and expect him to turn out right. Their old man was losin’ his touch, and that much Merle was damned certain of.

The old man had been rough on Merle, but that was the way things were. You molly-coddle ‘em an’ they turn into pussies that can’t fend for themselves, much less any of their kin. Lettin’ them turn into a bitch wasn’t a part of how things were done and Merle wasn’t gonna let that happen with Daryl.

So he’d stepped in as soon as he realized what was happening. He’d come home to find the skinny runt hidin’ out in the fields, a sharp stick in one hand, dirty an’ looking like he’d fallen outta more than one or two trees recently. The kid just stared up at him, all big blue eyes and Merle saw potential.

Now it’s not like he hurt him for the hell of it, no sir. There was a purpose to it. And when the old man got drunk and took his belt to the boy, sometimes Merle would step in, sometimes not. But he made sure to keep an eye out on the kid, make sure his cuts didn’t get infected. He gave him the smallest amounts of affection on an irregular basis. He worked with a patience few would believe of Merle Dixon.

And it worked like a charm. The kid followed him around like a puppy, hiding behind his legs when the old man would bellow louder than a stuck pig. He’d creep into Merle’s bed in the middle of the night, trying to hide and sometimes Merle wouldn’t kick him out, sometimes he’d let Daryl burrow under the sheets, his messy hair tucked under Merle’s chin, clutching Merle’s muscled arm for comfort.

He poked and he prodded and called him names, laughing when he’d see the runt tryin’ to hide the angry tears in his eyes, but he also taught him everythin’ he knew about hunting, about tracking, about how to fucking _survive_ out in the wilderness.

And yeah, he left from time to time. Sometimes because he had to, other times ‘cause he felt like it. And when he was gone, he knew what Daryl was up to, thanks to his eyes an’ ears in town.

He felt somethin’ like pride when he’d strike the kid down and mock him for being takin’ down so easy, only to have the kid get back up, wipe his face on his arm and charge back at Merle, shouting and kicking furiously. He’d wrestle the boy down and laugh an’ smile, proud as can be that Daryl would keep fightin’ back.

Then…then came the day when Merle knew he was ready to take this down a different road. He started slow, not wanting the kid to figure things out too fast. Hormones can make a young boy open to suggestion and damned if that wasn’t a sign from above that he was being gifted for his hard work.

He observed the boy sitting by the fire; head bent as he studiously manipulated his knife along the skin of a rabbit, seemingly unaware of Merle’s gaze. Yes, he was comin’ along fine now, well on his way to bein’ a man. Merle smiled a slow, crooked smile.

It was easier than he’d thought.

By God, that boy was damned near starved for affection. He’d worked him over time and before he knew it, he had Daryl between his legs, a look of fear dimly banked in his eyes as he followed Merle’s instructions. Tellin’ him how he ought to show his appreciation to Merle for makin’ sure he didn’t starve, for keeping him alive long after their deadbeat dad would have and didn’t Daryl know that Merle was the only one who even gave a shit if Daryl lived or not?

It sunk in. The boy was a natural, timid at first, sure, but he got the hang of it. And if keeping the kid a bit on the hungry side increased his desire to keep Merle happy, so be it. He understood how badly the kid needed reassurance, so once in a while he’d give him a bone and watch that ghost of a smile on his boy’s lips.

He felt just right, all tight and his thighs trembling, gasping and gripping the ground as Merle drove into him. He’d tell Daryl how good he was only when he was buried to the hilt inside him. He’d stroke that messy, dirty hair and whisper filthy words in his ear, filthy words and endearments, listening to the breathy, desperate sobs underneath him.

Merle wasn’t one to let something like this slip away, not when Daryl gave head like a pro, not when he had the boy trained to the point that it only took a certain look to have the boy fumble for his belt, to have him get down on all fours so willingly.

And by the time they’d found a ragtag group of survivors outside of Atlanta years later, Merle had no qualms about keeping Daryl firmly under his thumb, even in front of these people, these ignorant, stupid fucks who wouldn’t understand why his baby brother stayed at his side, no matter what.

After all, no one else understood what Daryl needed better than Merle. And he’d be damned if he’d let one of them change Daryl’s mind.

X


End file.
